by H. J. Pang
The moment he lifted his head and howled, Greg knew he had no time to lose. Even as he ran, the tinkle of glass rang at different points throughout the platform as the ferals slammed themselves against the glass, hands scrabbling through holes and cracks. Their snarls and cries chilled Greg to the bone, and part of him hoped that he would awake only to find that he had dozed off at a station, and that this was all one bloody dream. But the burning of his legs felt real enough, along with the rancid stink emitting from the station.
Noticing the wiring conduits at the side, Greg drew out his roll of tenting line, as he maintained his pace, looping it quickly through the mass of wires from one end to the other. Leaving the X- barricade behind him, Greg ran on, the sound of metal and glass landing onto tracks and gravel following close behind. Caterwauls and shrieks followed soon after.
He knew his trap had worked when he heard the distant sounds of gagging and snarls, followed by the scattering of gravel. Some of them sounded like they had started to fight against one another. But the ferals wouldn’t stop for long, and Greg still had four stations to go, if the MRT map was anything to go by. Despite years of hard labour in the mines, Greg hadn’t had much opportunity to exercise his legs. When food was scarce, and sleep the only respite, one didn’t waste it on needless movement. This much was apparent as he felt the muscles of his leg burn, his breaths coming in hard and fast. He was desperate to stop for a breath, and maybe a drink of water, but any second spent stopping meant an extra ten or so metres closing between him and his pursuers.
As Greg passed Farrer Road station, a figure pounced from the platform, and Greg had just time enough to duck as the figure caught him across the top of his back, sending him tumbling into a roll. As he turned, the newcomer clawed at Greg, and it was all he could do to hold his assailant back by the neck. This feral looked thinner and more underfed than the ones in close pursuit, but was still strong enough to not allow Greg any room for movement. Greg yelled as the feral snapped close to his face, its bad breath stinking up his nose. Arching his back, he used his momentum to fling his attacker over, sending him crashing into the edge of the platform.
By the time he managed to get to his feet, Greg found himself surrounded by a few of the ferals from the previous station. He lifted his parang slowly, keeping his eyes trained on them. Already, he could hear the transit security feral making short work of the one that had just attacked Greg, its snarls and gurgles dying off into silence. It appeared that these … creatures had some sort of territorial nature. Only the strong survived. How ironic that he had survived five years in the mines, only to be killed by monsters straight out of a movie! Greg could barely see the silhouettes circling him, so he turned on his flashlight.
The feral right in front of him hissed, standing upright as her hands shielded her eyes from the glare. Another to his left pounced, and Greg swung his parang hard, catching him on the skull. Another charged from behind, and Greg turned too late to intercept him. The loud bang of gunfire rang out, and Greg saw his attackers fall away in a splash of blood. A nearby feral sank his or her teeth into his jacketed shoulder, but Greg felt the weight slump off him as another shot found his mark. Towards the next station, several flashlights on the track turned on.
“You there! Come to us!” barked a voice. In the confines of the tunnels, no one needed a loudspeaker. Greg lifted his hand to shield his eyes from the glare. “Stand there for what? Hurry and run lah!”
Greg needed no telling twice. He stumbled towards the direction of the voice and light, doing his best to shield his eyes. The next few shots echoing through the tunnels hurt his ears, but he was well aware of the splats of flesh and bone behind him. When Greg finally reached the source of the lights, a strong pair of arms lifted him up onto the floor of some kind of railcar. He was shoved onto a bench, and as his eyes adjusted, he could see the guys who had saved him. One was standing against the railing at the railcar’s front, firing away with a SAR 21A rifle. With their flash suppressors, barely any muzzle flash illuminated the surrounding area. The railing itself had two construction lights mounted upon it, throwing strong beams towards the front. Greg could see the ferals caught in the wide beams as they scarpered or fell from gunfire. The shooter’s partner pushed repeatedly on a lever set in the centre of the railcar, and it quickly reversed with the constant sound of rubbing metal. The railcar was manually operated! With the rarity of improvised fuels, Greg wasn’t too surprised.
The rifleman wiped his brow and turned to Greg. “What were you thinking?” he snapped. “You should know better than to walk these tunnels.”
Now that he wasn’t running for his life, Greg took a good look at his saviours. The one heaving away at the lever wore an old-style Load Bearing Vest, or LBV, over a singlet. Greg could see the hints of tattoos peeking out of his collar, and across his forearms. Another SAR 21A was likewise slung across his back. His partner seemed to be better equipped, with a pair of night-vision goggles strapped to his head. He had raised it up before turning on the lights. Around his bicep was the red armband of the 418. Greg was about to jump off the railcar, but the look from the 418 shooter wasn’t exactly hostile. He then remembered his guise still remained.
“What were those things?” croaked Greg. The lever operator found a bottle of water and passed it to him. “It’s … it’s almost like they were …”
“Zombies? No, they not undead,” said the rifleman as he reloaded his gun. “More like gong-gong already. You heard about the auroras that formed after The Storm? The people who weren’t indoors at the time went siao after seeing it. The lucky ones just become a bit crazy. The not-so-lucky ones?” The rifleman jerked his head towards the direction they’d come. “Lots of these siaokia were created. We call them the Mindless. I heard people say it had something to do with the cosmic radiation frying their minds or something, but I also don’t know too much about it. They usually stay underground during daytime, with their eyes being light- sensitive and all, so we try to keep away from the underground stations.”
“But there’re … there’re so many of them,” said Greg.
“Well, the Botanical Gardens station is one of the most infested. Some of the brothers say that a number of the animals that escaped from the zoo settled there, because of all the fruit trees in the area. The Mindless also like fruits, but love meat more.” The rifleman peered at Greg. “You from which outfit?”
“The Minelords,” said Greg, flashing his own armband. “I’m one of the messengers for Teluk Ramunia.”
“So how come Liang never forward the messages?” asked the rifleman. Greg could see that his eyes were narrowed. “He normally will do that, what.”
“He must forward, meh? It’s an urgent delivery to a Red Pole, so he say I must hurry up go!” Greg banged on the bench. “But that bugger never tell me the MRT is dangerous, almost get me killed! Now I also want to tell his Red Pole what he did!”
“Eh, relak, okay?” said the rifleman quickly. “Everyone makes mistakes lah. Liang should tell you which route to use, but he couldn’t have known you would use the MRT network to get here.
It might be a lot faster if we didn’t have Mindless crawling about, and if there weren’t, we would already have expanded into all these stations. Lim and I will bring you to The Mountain to deliver the message alright? Then we’ll see about getting you back to the Causeway. I’m Yin, Senior 49er.”
“Greg, 49er messenger,” said Greg, shaking his and Lim’s hand. “The equipment you all use really stylo-mylo.”
Yin laughed. “Eh, 418 treat their best people well, you know. Besides, we also need this stuff. Anything else won’t be as effective in these tunnels. You think MP5 got use here? Range too short. What more, 9mm ammo not as powerful.” He smacked the pistol at his waist regretfully.
“What are you guys doing here anyway?” Greg asked. “It’s quite far from The Mountain.”
“We have an outpost at Buona Vista station,” clarified Lim. “We heard some noises, including what
sounded like an actual person, so we went to investigate. You’re lucky we found you when we did.”
“Ya, but also very fun for us,” said Yin, smacking his rifle. “This gun damn fun to use, and what more, can do full-auto some more. The Mindless don’t dare came near Buona Vista, because of the lights, but they also know we’ve got guns. They may be siao liao, but they aren’t 100% stupid.”
They were silent for a minute as they passed Holland Village station. Several figures flitted away into the shadows, and Greg had no doubt they were stray Mindless, if not other forms of wildlife. Yin kept at the lookout, but despite the railcar moving at a relatively slow 20 km/hr, nothing came after them. They soon reached Buona Vista station. Several oil drums with fires burning within lit the area, along with two high-powered overhead lights focused towards the front. Three guards and their weapons were silhouetted against the light.
“Hey, Yin, what you find?” yelled one of the figures as they neared. Greg could see him manning a fourth-generation FN MAG machine gun mounted on its tripod, complete with targeting system and its long belt of golden rounds.
“A fellow 49er lost his way! I’m going to bring him to The Mountain!” replied Yin. Greg could feel the eyes of the guards boring into him. “Shouldn’t take more than thirty minutes.”
“Let him walk himself, lah!” said one of the guys. “Not like very far what.”
“Kani nah, is that how you treat your brothers?” questioned Yin. “Next time you on forward duty, you can go yourself!”
Greg briefly wondered how long it would take for them to realise he wasn’t who he said he was. He had to remain silent. Making a move now would only result in him being cut down by that MG, and a half dozen rifles. He took several breaths to calm his nerves, even going as far as to rub his hands together. Lim looked curiously at him.
“This your first time here?” asked Yin. They had come up to the station platform. The glass of the doors had been reinforced with wooden boards and sheet metal. Just beyond it, another guard post could be seen. “Don’t need to worry, our guys won’t anyhow tekan you one. Just relak, and let me do the talking, okay? After you deliver your message, I can take you to makan and maybe drink something. Our cookhouse makes very good teh and kopi.” As they neared the metal-framed glass doors of the one-north station platform, he reached out his hand and rapped the doors several times. A guard at the post nodded, and picked up a nearby handset. He spoke a few words into it, and to Greg’s surprise, only the doors they were at opened. The 418 had really thought it out from a tactical standpoint. In the event that the forward outposts got swarmed, any adversaries would have to enter a single door, putting them at greater risk of being gunned down. The lights at the station were lit in alternate rows, and Greg couldn’t remember the last time he had seen real artificial lighting. The mines had single bulbs at some places, but their glow was so intermittent that it always had to be supplemented by candles. Rolls of makeshift barbed wire directed traffic towards the escalators at both sides of the platform.
Greg followed Yin and Lim up the closest flight of escalators. As they walked past the control room, one of the three guards stepped out towards them, and the group stopped. Here, only a single light lit the immediate area.
“Who’s this?” asked the guard. Having grown his hair long unlike the other 418 members, it fitted around his head like a lion’s mane. Upon his vest were the English numerals 426, identifying him as a Red Pole, a senior commander of a triad crew, who may be tasked with special duties such as assassination. Bare arms lay at the side of his ballistic vest, and Greg could see the landscape of tattoos upon it. Now that he stood up close, Greg could see that they were names. Written in both English and Chinese script, Greg guessed they may have been the names of his victims.
“Messenger from The Minelords, Red Pole Keng!” affirmed Yin with a salute, clenched fist over his rifle. “I was just bringing him upstairs.”
Red Pole Keng looked Greg in the eye. “And why didn’t you give the message to Liang?” he hissed.
“The dispatch was urgent, Red Pole, and it was important that it reached its recipient,” replied Greg. “There’s been a complication at the mines.”
“A complication like … a mine escape?” asked Keng.
CAPITAL CITY OF THE 418
“THAT’S RIGHT,” SAID Greg. He didn’t know how Keng knew. He’d made sure the communications equipment at the mines were completely and utterly destroyed. But he was going to have to improvise as he went, otherwise he was totally screwed. He stole a look behind him. Behind, several walkways to the old mall above stood. All of them had fire gates raised, but he was still fifteen metres away, at the very least. “I’m bringing the dispatch to the Incense Master …” He took two steps backwards.
Yin raised his eyebrow. “Just now you said you’re supposed to give it to a Red Pole.” Greg cursed himself.
Keng whipped out his pistol, with the two guards in the booth following suit. The sound of cocked slides and hammers echoed throughout the station. Yin and Lim stood undecided as Keng stepped towards Greg, his face livid.
“So you’re a stinking 25, eh? A fucking spy?” roared Keng, as Greg kept his hands raised. “Do you know what we do with spies?”
“I’m no spy!” exclaimed Greg. Already he could gauge he was about ten metres away from the door. But he would be cut down the second he tried to run.
“Show me your tattoos! Show me your fucking tattoos!” screamed Keng, froth flecking his mouth. “Take off that jacket and show me!”
Greg gripped the bottom of his jacket and pulled. As he flipped it over his head, he spun, drawing the revolver he hid in his waistband. Aligning it with his target, he fired.
The single lit bulb shattered, throwing the station into darkness. As one, the triad guards opened fire, lighting the area sporadically. Stepping to the side, Greg flung his jacket towards Keng, and the Red Pole yelled, spinning around wildly. Two of his shots were accompanied by yells, but Greg couldn’t see who it was. He ran through the open fire door, and struck the button next to it. The fire door came down with a crash, and almost immediately, the indents of the bullets striking the other side appeared on the surface, followed by rifle rounds which pierced through it completely. With no time to waste, Greg ran up the escalators to the upper floors. He was out in what was once Nexus mall. Out here, what little daylight that remained was filtered in through the glass above. Two guards raised their rifles at the sight of him.
“There’s a 25 downstairs!” Greg yelled. “The Red Pole needs your help!” Eyes wide open, the guards ran down the escalator, leaving Greg to slink through the guard post, but not before grabbing what appeared to be a floor plan. He quickly headed towards where he saw a line of people, following close behind. None of them looked back, and Greg could see from their haggard and grubby faces that they were exhausted. With more males than females, in their hands were what looked like gardening and digging equipment, including spades with dirt on them. It had to be about 6pm now, the time the work crews typically knocked off.
Looking around, Greg could see that what remained of the old shops were now occupied by stalls. All seemed to be utilitarian in their offerings, selling stuff like food and drink, which likely included the kopi Yin had promised. There didn’t seem to be any other offerings such as clothes. Looking ahead of the line he was following, Greg saw that they were depositing their tools at a counter, where two similarly haggard workers yanked it from them, an armed 49er in a red armband watching them. An older man wearing goggles sharpened a tool against a rotating block of concrete, looking briefly at Greg. The group walked towards the old escalators to the upper floors, with Greg close behind. And just then, an alarm sounded. Greg couldn’t believe it, but the sound appeared to be coming from the old fire alarm system. The 418 had managed to repurpose it for their own uses. Several guards dashed past with an assortment of weapons. It wouldn’t be long before the guards were out looking for him, but he had to blend in for now.
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br /> The upper floors of Nexus had wide open spaces. Once meant to appeal to mall-goers, it was now cluttered with numerous tents mixed with structures of cardboard and plywood. The glow of flames could just be made out reflecting against the structures. Here, the work crew dispersed, some heading into what passed for home, while others made their way towards the wall at the far side. The sound of running water could be heard nearby, and Greg headed towards it.
A single hose fed several taps which some of the grubby workers washed themselves with. Several plywood booths had been set up side by side over a channel that acted as a drain for who knows how long, with lumps of mold growing in it. One of the booths opened slightly, and Greg could briefly see someone scooping some water from a basin with a cup, and dousing himself with its contents. Just like how his grandfather had showered back in the old kampungs. Still, this was far better conditions than many other places Greg could think of. Stepping inside an empty booth, Greg drew his utility knife, quickly shaving off thick clumps of his hair and beard. He followed an approximation of a style that most of the men around here had—short and unkempt. Not having any means to dry off, Greg settled for washing just his face and arms. He changed into the fresh set of clothes he had taken from Liang before heading out.
There was some sort of commotion going on, but Greg hadn’t heard it during his trim. His stomach chilled as he saw several 418 soldiers taking up positions around the living quarters, kicking and pushing tents down as they did. A pot propped over a fire toppled, precious stew sloshing over the floor. Several villagers were grabbed and yelled at, with a couple ordered to place their palms against the wall. Greg saw several of the nearby villagers kneeling with their hands behind their head, and quickly followed suit.
“Has anyone seen anyone that doesn’t belong here?” yelled a soldier. One could tell by the better equipment he carried, along with the red words painted on his clothes, that this was a Red Pole. Nobody answered.
